Tales of the Spanish Ninja
by Blackjack Gabbiani
Summary: Some insight into Vega's past (second chapter added July 19th)
1. Uno--Destino Sangriento

Perhaps you know me. Perhaps you have awakened in the middle of the night,  
quivering with an unknown fear, as if the shadow of Death herself grasps your heart in her  
icy fingers. Perhaps, as you cast your eyes nervously around the room, you see, from the  
corner of your eye, a figure darting away. That is me.  
Who am I? I am the one from whom nightmares come. You may not realize this  
from looking at me, for, in appearance, I am the opposite of a dark dread. You would  
look at me and think I would inspire wonderful dreams of meadows and flowers. But the  
only flower you will find here is a single flawless rose stained with blood.  
Who am I? I am the Dark Prince of the Arena. I am the one who wields the sword  
in one hand and the cape in the other. I provide the wonderful contrast, my grace against  
the stumbles and flails of the idiotic bull. Some say that I appear to fly when I fight in the  
Arena, that my perfect movements are the height of human possibilities.  
That is who I am. I am beauty. I am perfection. I am Vega.  
  
I see that you recognize my name. Tell me, do you fear me? I am the Night  
Hunter, El Sanguinario Príncipe, the Terror of Barcelona. But that is my private life.  
Publicly, I am adored by thousands, possibly millions. Although I may dally with my  
admirers, I feel nothing for any of them. They worship me, and that is as it should be.  
You say you want to hear of my private life? Very well. I am not ashamed of any  
of it.  
When I was a mere child of three, I discovered the ultimate power. I was watching  
one of the servant girls kill rats, and decided to join her. I took my father's stiletto dagger  
and, in a flash quicker than lightning, drove it through the heart of one of the foul beasts.  
Such a wonder that was! I remember everything about that moment, from the exact shade  
of red the blood was that poured from the creature, down the stiletto, and down my arm,  
to the rat's last, pathetic twitches of life, to the maid's expression of pure horror. Even  
now, I revel in that moment.  
I knew then and there that I was born to kill. That, I knew, was my mission in life,  
to end others.  
I devoted my life to training. I knew from the moment of my birth that I was  
perfect, but I had to maintain that perfection. So I trained in the killing arts.  
My parents did not know. To them, I was simply studying ninjitsu. But I had  
deliberately sought out a professional assassin to be my sensai.  
When I was nine years old, I made my first move. It was an experiment, of sorts. I  
had to see if I could kill a human and not be suspect. It would not have mattered if I was  
caught, as I have always been wealthy enough to buy my freedom. But no one ever did  
suspect me in the untimely demise of my nursemaid. Another memory I shall cherish  
forever. For you see, the plan was pure genius to my underdeveloped mind. I severed a  
length of rope and strangled her with it. I shall never forget her look of horror as I choked  
the life from her. Then, after she had departed this world, I tied the rope around her throat  
and pulled; then laid the slack end in her limp hand. The official cause of death was  
self-strangulation. I was free.  
  
Five years later, on a hot summer night, my parents joined my list of victims. I do  
not know if you are familiar with summertime in Barcelona, but it is almost unbearably  
hot, as if Lucifer himself controls the weather. No, I am not El Diablo. He is a great fool.  
When I die, I shall overthrow him and reign over all of Hell, but until that time, I must  
endure the summers of Barcelona.  
I had planned for years to make myself an orphan. The Lord and Lady of the house  
were a hindrance to my great plans, so they had to die. Another find memory. I took the  
guilded sword that had been passed down in my family for almost a thousand years from  
its hallowed place over the mantle, and, without warning, drove it through my father's  
heart.  
He did not make a sound. I was expecting him to scream, or cry, but he simply fell  
to his knees, the sword still embedded in his chest. He looked me straight in the eyes and  
mouthed "Why?". I yanked the weapon from him and watched the crimson blood stain his  
exquisite suit as he fell the rest of the way to the floor. As I stood over him, watching his  
heaving form shudder as the rat had over eleven years ago, I said proudly "Because it is  
what I was born for, Padre."  
As I spoke those words, his quivering slowed to a slight tremor and his eyes rolled  
back. Within a few seconds, he lay still.  
That was my first true kill. The death of my nursemaid was merely an experiment.  
This was for real.  
Suddenly, en menos que se persigna un cura loco, I was struck hard across the  
face. Damn! I had forgotten that my mother was in the next room. She stood there,  
shaking with anger and fright, a familiar reaction to me now, but then, I admit, I was  
terrified. Would this be the end of my glorious career as a killer? Would I be stopped by  
my own flesh and blood?  
"Vega!!" she screamed. "What the hell did you do?!" Tears ran down her lovely  
face; strange, I had never noticed how beautiful she was before that day. I drew the sword  
up again and slashed her across the chest. She fell clumsily to the floor, her blood draining  
into the thick carpeting. I leveled the blade to her throat.  
"Fare thee well, Madre," I whispered. In the dim light of the sitting room, I must  
have been quite a terrifying sight as I severed her head from her body. I had triumphed at  
last.  
I had heard from my mentor, a hardened killer if there ever was one, that many  
first-time killers will feel remorse and overwhelming guilt. I waited for it, but it never  
came. The only thing I felt was vindication. The first part of my destiny was fulfilled. The  
blade in my hand shone in the firelight, beseeching me to taste the fruits of my labor, the  
blood of the fallen.  
As I ran my tounge over the sword, the warm blood coursing down my throat, I  
became aware of a thin trickle on my face. Curse that bitch of a mother!! Her long nails  
had caught on my cheek, causing my own blood to run down. My own blood! I was not  
the victim, why should I bleed?  
Desperately, I ran to the hallway mirror. No! Frantically, I wiped at the cut, willing  
it to vanish, but it did not. Even after the blood ceased running, the hideous mark  
remained. Madre, what the hell did you do? My beautiful, perfect face...is ruined!  
I do not remember passing out. Nor do I remember being found by a serving  
girl--the same one, I later learned, who so innocently introduced me to the art of death.  
The next thing I remember is waking up in a small room.  
  
Oh, on a side note, for I see your eyes wide with panic...The sword I use in the  
Arena, the sword that so many young matadors treasure, that has ended the lives of  
countless beasts...That is the same sword I used on that day.  
But yet, you do not run. Fascinating. Would it interest you to know that it is the  
same sword that hangs at my waist at this very moment? Ah, you are a brave one. Please,  
have a drink. Oh, no. This is only red wine, merely a substitute for the sweetness of life's  
blood. That is partaken of at the scene of demise.  
You still wish to hear my story? Very well.  



	2. Dos--Mortal Belleza

Finally, the second chapter of "Tales of the Spanish Ninja"! At long last! Praise Cammy, I'm finally getting around to it! Translations are after the chapter.  
  
  
  
  
There was a man in that room, standing against the wall. He was of average face, but I could sense his power. When he saw I had awakened, he moved towards me with the grace posessed only by those who know the ways of battle. He had to be well over two meters tall, and although he wore a well-tailored suit, I could tell he was remarkably strong and fierce.  
"Vega Fabio de Crena," he addressed me.  
"I detest that name. Never call me that again."  
He raised an eyebrow and chuckled. "Now, now, Lord de Cerna. You should be thanking me." His voice was deep, and his Spanish was twinged with an accent I could not identify, although his features suggested a possible Southeast Asian origin.  
"Why should I thank you? Where am I?" I demanded.  
"Lord de Cerna, calm yourself. I was brought here on your sensai's request. My name is Sagat."  
What would my sensai have to do with this? My mind raced through all the possibliities, and found nothing. In my silence, Sagat continued.  
"Your sensai Santiago is an associate of mine. He heard of your crime, and reported it to me."  
"Who are you?" I shouted, petulant as always.  
"To answer your previous question, we are in the sub-level of the Castle de Maria Isobel."  
I gasped. Everyone in Barcelona knew the dark suspicions surrounding this place, and, desperate to make heads or tails of my situation, I blurted out the one thing my mind could summon.  
"So you're from Shadowloo?"  
He smirked. "I see you are familiar with our organization. Lord de Cerna, consider yourself fortunate. Your skill has greatly impressed Santiago. When he reported your feats to me, I must admit, I was very impressed as well. For a mere child of fourteen to show that kind of fighting prowess is, frankly, amazing. Which leads me to my busniess with you." He paused to clear his throat, so I did not hesitate to ask:  
"You want me in Shadowloo? Why? What would I do?"  
That smirk crossed his face once again. "You would start at the bottom. But unlike most recruits, you have a chance to rise up the ranks. Perhaps someday, you may become an Elite. In return for your services as a fighter, you will be educated by the finest instructers in the world, trained by the finest fighters, and paid a bi-annual salary of one hundred thousand dollars American."  
My head swam with all the information. "And...if I refuse?" I asked, knowing full well that I had already made up my mind. Shadowloo! To be a part of that would be ecstasy itself! I would kill, and be honored for it! My heart pounded in my chest, up into my throat.  
"Should you refuse, you will be turned over to the police for the murder of your parents. I believe you would be found guilty in a moment, and either be executed, or spend the remainder of your life in prison."  
I licked my lips. "I will be exonerated if I accept?"  
"Yes. We can plant evidence to pin the deed on the serving girl who found you."  
"Very well then, Sagat. You have found yourself a new recruit."  
His eyes gleamed. "Excellent. I shall inform the Master."  
  
After he left, my hand flew to my face. The cut was healed. My lovely, perfect face was intact! Oh, even now, years later, I consider that to be the greatest day of my life. I had rid myself of my spiteful parents and got off free, my beauty remained, and I would make my living doing what I was born to do.  
You are not drinking your wine. Is it not to your liking?  
But at any rate, Sagat was true to his word. The maid was tried for the murders, and executed three months later. She accused me until the end. Even as the noose was placed around her neck, she screamed my guilt to the sky. As the trapdoor snapped open, sending her plunging to her death, I smiled. All was right with the world.  
  
After one year in Shadowloo, my path to destiny became clear. I recieved a message written in a strangely elegant script. It was not in Spanish or English, but I somehow understood every word. I was to participate in a grand battle with one of the Elite, and in attendance would be the Master himself! Oh, I was as giddy as I had been that fateful day one year ago, when I, sword in hand, freed myself of my limitations. And I would see the Master! After this time, I had yet to catch even a glimpse of the elusive and mystic man known as M. Bison. It was said that to see him is the greatest honour a lowly agent like myself could ever hope for. The Elite met with him on a regular basis, and the agents and soldiers rarely crossed paths with the Princes of Shadowloo. Yet I, a mere beginner, would be battling one!  
That afternoon, I arrived at the Arena. Sagat was in attendance, as was an Italian gypsy woman whose name I learned to be Rose. And there was another man there, already seated. I could not see his face, but his eyes glowed with a strange light, and he bore the symbol of Shadowloo on his strange red uniform.  
Suddenly, I was overcome with pure adoration, and fell to my knees. "Master..." I gasped, unable to think of anything else. In that moment, I knew that I was destined to become an Elite, to share that great power which he wielded over all of us.  
"Vega." That voice! The inherent power cut through, leaving me breathless, after he had only spoken my name! Was there nothing about this man that lacked command and leadership?  
He continued. "Vega, do you know why you have been summoned to my presence?" I couldn't speak, only shook my head. "You are to battle Balrog, the fighting demon from America. He is skilled, but lacks discipline. You, at the age of fifteen, have shown skill to match the Elite. But to become one of the Princes, you must first defeat one. Would you like to be considered for that position?"  
Somehow I found my voice, but could not translate. "Sir... me honrarían. Pero qué si yo no puede lo derrotaron?"  
He laughed, a truly frightening sound. "If you cannot defeat him, you will return to your current position, and may try once again when I deem you worthy."  
I bowed deeply. "Gracias, sir. Usted es el más merciful."  
He smiled, displaying his knife-sharp teeth. "Merciful? You may not think so when you face your opponent."  
A section of the wall opened, and a horrible snarling sound broke the serenity of the Arena. And my opponent entered.  
To put it simply, this was no man. This...THING...was the most hideous beast I have ever seen in my life, even now. And to my young mind, which had just been weakened by my Master's control, there were two choices.  
The first would have been to retreat, surrender before the battle began, but I knew that I would be shamed should that occur. No, my hatred for this ugly beast commanded me to kill him. Freed of my awe for the Master, I unsheathed my sword and lept towards the creature, yelling a high-pitched battle cry.  
The closer I came, the uglier he got. This had to be the single most repulsive creature the world had ever known. I strongly doubted that he was even human, for his eyes bore no intelligence, only a feral drive unmatched by any human I have ever seen. Part of me admired that feral state, for when one is wild like that, one can do what one feels like. But I quickly shoved that tought to the back of my mind, and furthered my attack.  
I do not clearly recall the details of the fight. I rememebr driving my sword up the hilt into his shoulder. He reared back, frothing at the mouth like a rabid beast, and delivered a volley of blows to my midsection. Stunned, I fell to the blood-spotted ground and lost consciousness.  
  
  
["Sir... me honrarían. Pero qué si yo no puede lo derrotaron?"="Sir...I would be honoured. But what if I cannot defeat him?"]  
["Gracias, sir. Usted es el más merciful."="Thank you, sir.. You are most merciful."]  



End file.
